Candi’s Debt

by Aubrey Cara

  “Rick,” Dom says not taking his cold, threatening eyes off me. “I think Ms. Dawson has lost her way. Could you please show her the door?”

  Mr. No-Neck Flashy Jeans takes a step toward me and I hold up my hands. “Wait!” All eyes from the table are on me and Dom is in no way amused. “I would like to play.”

  “I think you’ve forgotten yourself, and where you are, dear.” Dom’s voice is so menacing I take an involuntary step back.

  Swallowing my rising urge to flee the premises, I trudge on. “I’d like a chance to play you for my debt.”

  He’s playing with his stack of chips so they all clack, clack, clack together as he lets them fall into a neat stack under his hand. It’s a casual gesture to distract from the fact that he’s probably thinking of all the ways he’s going to slowly torture me. “You do know you have to buy your way into this game? Since you can’t even pay me—”

  “I’ll front her the cash,” Mr. Texas says. He smiles at me like he’s not been this entertained in ages.

  “Trading one debt for another. Is that what you’d like to do, Ms. Dawson?” Dom asks, giving me a look that says I’m playing a dangerous game and there will be consequences.

  I’m realizing I could have thought this through a little better. I should get out while I still can, but I can’t back down now. “How much is the buy in?” My palms are sweating and I resist the urge to wipe them on my skirt.

  “One thousand dollars and two girls.”

  My mind stutters. “Two girls?”

  “These fine gentlemen before you are all local strip club owners. We’re meeting to change up some of our girls that are getting stale. Winner gets first pick.”

  That’s when I notice there are pictures of women tossed on the table. Some are Polaroid type pictures taken up against a wall, the girl smiling like it’s her employee of the month shot. While others are more professionally done shots of a girl in her “dancing” element. Huh, I wonder if the girls know they’re being traded, and if they’re offended. Or maybe they’re like athletes and this is just an acknowledged and accepted norm. “I don’t have two girls, but I have myself.”

  “Hmm, so if Mr. Tullson over there, generously fronts you a grand, you’ll offer yourself as collateral if you lose? How is that beneficial to me? I already have you, dear.”

  “How much does she owe you, Serino?” Mr. Texas, Tullson asks Dom. I’m surprised Dom’s name sounds so Italian when he looks anything but.

  “Three large.”

  “I say put her debt marker in. I’d happily pay you for her. Let the filly play,” Mr. Tullson says as he snips the end of a cigar.

  The older round man in the striped shirt looks me over appreciatively and shrugs. “Yeah, why not? I’d take her for three grand.”

  My stomach twists and my heart is racing. This is quickly getting out of hand. How ironic that I got out of being a card shark because I didn’t want to end up being wagered in a bet, only to come back and wager myself? Isn’t there some saying about the known evil is better than an unknown? I don’t know any of the men at this table or what they’re capable of. I’m assuming if they buy my debt marker they will be wanting me to do a hell of a lot more than dance for them.

  I have no idea how to back out of this. At least for Dom it’ll just be dancing. I’ll be dancing for a sociopath that may kill me and my brother, but it’ll still be just dancing. What these men will want…

  The horror of this new realization must show on my face because Dom is smirking at me. His eyes are glacier cold, making his grin even more sinister when he says, “Fine. Let’s get on with this. Have a seat Ms. Dawson.” He’s not happy I’m playing, but he’s delighted I’ve realized the stakes and I no longer want any part of this game.

  No-Neck Rick produces a seat at the green felt table between Mr. Tullson and the silent biker. The biker’s sprawled back in his seat and his dark eyes look me up and down as I sit. There’s smokes in his front jacket pocket and I’m staring them down. They’re calling me. Hank would be so pissed if I had one, but he’s through with me right?

  I should have taken the money he threw at me last night. I could have bought a pack of smokes earlier and I wouldn’t feel so damn edgy now, like ants are racing over my skin. It would have served the great ape right. “Can I bum a smoke?” I ask the biker.

  Silent and stoic as ever, he pulls a cig out. He lights it with a puff, before placing it at my lips for me to take with my mouth. I have a feeling this is silent biker’s way of hitting on me. He thinks I’m a bad girl, or some crap, and I intrigue him. I can tell by the glint in his eye as he watches me drag in and savor my first breath of blessed tar and nicotine. He just leans back into his slouch position, an arm thrown over the back of his chair. His lips pull up a bit, and I know this is turning him on.

  Whatever floats your boat, buddy.

  Not to be outdone Mr. Tullson asks if I want a drink. He’s a bit more subtle as he looks me over. He shoots me a wink from under his brimmed cowboy hat as he lights his cigar. “Sweet pretty girls like you shouldn’t be smoking,” he says.

  “That’s what I hear,” I reply, taking another drag. Being reminded of Hank, I have a moment of guilt and squash it like a bug. I’m not the kind of girl that’s going to quit a bad habit just because a man told me to.

  Rick sets an ashtray down at Tullson’s elbow and poker chips in front of me. They’re four white, three black, and one blue.

  Tullson holds out a hand while Dom is opening a deck of cards. “Jethro Tullson, the third, at your service. You can call me Jet.”

  “Candi,” I say shaking his hand, and willing myself to relax as I take another drag off my smoke. I’m feeling like I just downed a triple shot of espresso I’m so jittery, but I need to get my head in the game.

  “Mmm, yes you are, sugar,” he says. “I hope we have the chance to get better acquainted. I’ve always had something of a sweet tooth.” He pats my leg under the table, and I jerk in surprise.

  “It’s a hundred dollar blinds, fifty small,” Dom says, saving me from having to form a response to Tullson’s bold pickup line and roaming hands. “Your blue chip is worth five hundred, the black one hundred, and the white fifty. Winner gets first pick of the girls that are up for trade, and of course Ms. Dawson.”

  Like I need that reminder. Large blinds means the game is going to go fast whether bets go high or not. That sucks for me, but with single deck Texas Hold’em, running a count is pretty cut and dry. Nineteen cards on the table and thirty-three in the deck. Configuring the odds is easy. Winning in a short game when playing off odds is what’s going to be difficult. Counting cards is a science that gives me an edge, but I know it’s not fool-proof.

  There’s a commotion at the door and my stomach drops as Hank strolls in. He has a certain swagger when he walks. It’s not exactly arrogant but like he commands whatever space he’s in. He’s wearing the leathers of a biker over his jeans and black t-shirt. He looks like bad boy sin. It makes me think of all the tattoos on his arms and across his chest I’d seen last night. The look suits him, and makes my heart skip a beat at the sight of him, but what the fuck is he doing here?

  “Sorry I’m late,” he says, tossing two photos of dancers in the center of the table. That’s when he notices me. He looks at my left hand holding a cig and the pile of chips in front of me before skewering me with a look.

  If he’s here to drag me home I’m screwed. But he has pictures. Why the hell does he have pictures?

  “You are?” Dom asks, as he shuffles the deck.

  “Colin, Colin McGellan. Phillipe sent me. His old lady went into labor this morning. I’m his silent partner.”

  That gets Dom’s attention. He eyes Hank up and down. “You’re partial owner of Muchachas?” It’s like Dom’s stolen the question right out of my head. Hank’s partial owner of a Latino strip club? What? I’m trying to remain cool, like I have no idea who Hank is and my head’s not reeling. But I am reeling.

  Hank. Is.
Here.

  Or rather ‘Colin McGellan’—whoever the hell that is—and about to join the poker game.

  So much for not having any distractions.

  “Yeah, it’s a new arrangement,” Hank says.

  Dom gives him another look before nodding his head at the open seat to his left. “Well, take a seat. We might as well get started.”

  Once Hank is seated he pins me with a stony glare. Dom catches it. It was hard not to. Where he usually looks at me with fire, his look now says I’m dead meat.

  “You familiar with my dear Ms. Dawson, Colin?” When Dom puts an emphasis on my, Hank’s jaw flexes. I’m sure Dom is trying to get a rise out of him.

  A spark of anger comes to Hank’s eyes for a second before his look goes hard and blank again. “Yeah, she owes me money,” he sneers, throwing my words back in my face.

  This makes Dom smile. “Oh, Ms. Dawson, what a tangled web you have woven for yourself. Mr. McGellan, you may or may not be happy to know Ms. Dawson has wagered herself and her debts in the pot of today’s game.”

  “Hm, is that so?” The question comes out with a deadly bite. Not happy. Hank’s definitely not happy.

  “I have to admit,” Tullson interjects. “Our annual poker game has never been this entertaining. And we haven’t even gotten started yet.” He’s grinning from ear to ear but he’s made his point clear. Let’s get playing already.

  He winks at me as he takes a sip of his whiskey and I’m fairly certain he knows what he’s about.

  The tension radiating around the table from Hank, Dom and myself is still present but at least things start moving along. Dom deals and I pick up my cards, taking comfort in the weight and scent of them. My dad was the man at the tables and behind the cards, but we practiced every night at home, or whatever dive of a motel room we were crashing at. Cards mean numbers, and numbers relax me. I can almost block the fact that Hank is sitting across from me shooting me unnerving stares from time to time.

  I get an ace of clubs and a two of spades. Everyone checks, and so do I. The flop is a five of clubs and two sevens. Hearts and diamonds. The biker wins the first round but loses the next two. He’s got a lousy poker face. When he has a decent hand he runs his hand over his beard. Just once. The big guy in the striped shirt purses his lips when he gets extra lousy cards. He and I both fold the last two rounds.

  Hank is playing like shit and will probably be the first one out, but I don’t think he cares. Gregarious Tullson has turned into cool hand Luke. He’s puffing at his cigar and has taken one sip of amber liquid from his tumbler, only after he won his last hand. If he has a tell I’m not seeing it. He and Dom are who I have to look out for.

  The next two hands move fast. There’s no idle chit chat or comradery from these guys. The only sound in the room is the click of chips being tossed in the pot, the shuffle of cards, and a wheezing cough now and again from Mr. Striped Shirt.

  They’re all obviously business associates who came here for the sole purpose of trading dancers. I wonder why they even bother with the poker. Men always say they don’t understand women, but men do weird things too. Like this game. I would think it would be easier and less expensive to just draw straws or roll a pair of dice for who gets first pick. Yet here they are, blowing a grand in less than an hour.

  The next hand the biker raises at the flop. I call. So do Dom and Just Call Me “Jet” Tullson. Dom raises at the turn, and Hank, the biker and I call. He raises again at the river. Hank is all in. I know he has a good hand, but the odds are in my favor. I have a straight flush. I highly doubt either of these guys can beat that.

  We flip our cards, and Dom is livid for a second before his face is again in a blank mask. He has four fours. A damn good hand. Hank’s lips pinch as he sits back in frustrated disappointment. He had a full house. It had been the best hand he’d played so far, and it just wasn’t good enough.

  And I win the pot. Keeping a smile off my face isn’t easy. Winning, in general, produces a pretty euphoric high, but there is a special sort of vindication I get from cleaning out Dom and the biker. If Dom doesn’t win the next hand, he’s out. A glance in Striped Shirt’s direction tells me he’s about a hand away from being out himself. And the biker, who’d lost the hand with three of a kind is not far behind him.

  Looks like Tullson is the only thing standing between me and freedom.

  The cards are dealt. I get a six and eight of spades. The flop goes down and there’s a five of spades, queen of diamonds, and a nine of spades. I have a good feeling about the turn. It’s a seven of diamonds, but it’s still enough for me to have a straight. It’s not the strongest hand, but I’ve seen bigger games won on less. Dom’s out and so is Mr. Chubby Striped Shirt. The biker has scrubbed his hand over his beard twice now and clenches his jaw in agitation as he glances down at his cards again. He’s got nothing.

  In my excitement I feel myself smirk and wipe the look off my face. It’s such a rookie mistake, I’m kicking myself.

  Jet raises, and I’m so caught up in my own head I don’t even notice at first. I call and the biker goes all in. It’s a bold move, but he seems like the kind of guy who likes to live fast and loose. To him this is just a game. What does he care if he loses?

  Jet tosses down his cards. He’s out. It’s just me and the biker.

  A ten of hearts is put down for the turn and I’m trying not to show any kind of reaction as I turn over my six and eight.

  The biker doesn’t look happy. I still hold my breath as he scratches his brow and runs a hand over his beard. I’ve been out of the game of running cards for so long I almost miss the card exchange from his hand covering his cards before he smoothly turns them over.

  A jack of spades and a king of clubs.

  I feel like I’ve taken a direct hit to the stomach. He has a straight also, but his is higher than mine. And it wasn’t from luck of the draw.

  “You cheated.” My mouth is shooting off accusations before my brain has been properly loaded. I grab the sleeve of his jacket and shake, saying, “Where the hell is it? Where’s the card?” He yanks back his arm and I swear to all that’s holy I see a card. “I saw a card.” I turn to Tullson. “I swear I saw a card.”

  “That’s a big accusation from such a little girl.” It’s the first time the biker has spoken all night. His voice is like gravel over steel.

  “Stop being a sore loser,” Dom says. “You lost fair and square, dear.”

  “I’m not being a sore loser.” I try to reason and I stand up. I’m looking at Dom and pointing over at the biker. “He has a card up his fucking sleeve. Don’t you give a shit that he’s cheating you?”

  “Rick,” Dom says coolly. “Please show Ms. Dawson to my office while we finish up here. We’ve still yet to determine the winner.”

  I can’t believe this crap. They’re dealing out cards and pointedly not looking at me, as if they’re all done acknowledging my existence. And they are, at least until it’s determined who will be purchasing me this oh-so-fine day.

  No-Neck Rick comes over and pulls back my chair, but I’m having none of it. “Get your hands off me,” I snarl, tearing myself out of his hold. If any of them think I’ll be waiting meekly for the outcome of fate’s fickle decision sitting in Dom’s office, they have another think coming.

  Rick pays me no mind and wraps his arms around my upper body, lifting until my feet kick off the floor. I struggle for all I’m worth as he picks me up with his arms clamped around my upper body pinning my arms to my sides.

  “I plan on spending good money on her. Try not to bruise my treat for later, Rick,” the bastard Tullson calls out after us. The pig can eat my—

  “Actually, she’s coming with me.”

  Hearing Hank’s words I jerk my head around and my heart stops dead in my chest before starting back up at a gallop.

  Hank’s standing there pointing a handgun at the table’s general direction. Striding over, he takes my wrist. “Let her go,” Hank says, pointing the gun at Ri
ck’s head. He still holds me in a tight grip until Dom nods his head. Rick lets go of me so quickly I stumble forward and Hank yanks me up and behind him.

  “What the hell are you doing?!” My question comes out in a shriek.

  “We’re leaving.” He says calmly. He doesn’t turn as we make our way to the door, but keeps his weapon drawn, pointed in the direction of the table. His body is blocking mine from view but when I look back I see all the men have a weapon drawn. My heart stutters in my chest as I squeeze up against Hank’s back.

  Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, is all I can think as we go out the exit.

  So much for a friendly game of poker between business owners. We’re almost completely out when Hank fires a shot. Dom yells, falling back in his seat. The doors shatter behind us. Hank pushes me in front of him, my ears ringing from gunfire. We’re sprinting across the parking lot as shots ring out.

  “Are you insane?” I yell, but he doesn’t answer. He practically tosses me on the back of a motorcycle and slams a helmet on my head before he’s in front of me. The engine roars and I have two point two seconds to clutch onto him before we’re tearing out of the parking lot.

  I squeeze myself as tightly up against him as possible. I haven’t been on a bike since I was a kid and I crashed my brother’s dirt bike. This is a much different experience. The bike we’re on is the kind grizzly men refer to as hogs. I’m not sure if I like it. My skirt is practically around my waist and I can feel bugs pinging off my bare legs. No wonder bikers wear so much leather.

  I’d make a lousy biker bitch because I may cry from how much I want off this thing.

  We drive for what seems like hours. Ranches and fields we’ve passed have made way to woods. If we were followed we’ve lost them. There hasn’t been another vehicle on the road with us for the last twenty minutes at least. Hank has taken so many country roads I have no idea where we are. We turn onto a gravel road and Hank slows down, but doesn’t stop. The further down the dirt road we go, the thicker the trees get, and the more narrow the path is.